“No, David. You couldn’t ever be like that.” She was both horrified and amused.
“A year ago I was developing nicely into something closely resembling our friend Marain.” Then David smiled and said, “I had quite an escape, hadn’t I? If you had met me tonight for the first time, would you have disliked me as much as you disliked Marain?”
“If you had met me for the first time tonight, would you have ignored me?”
David laughed. “I should have lost the train,” he admitted.
But she still wasn’t persuaded. “I really am inadequate, David. About your work, I mean. And politics. I should be listening to you for hours—what you feel should be done about this or not done about that.” Yes, Marain had conveyed that quite clearly: David with a girl was less important than David as one of Marain’s circle.
“Heaven forbid,” David said, in genuine alarm. “You’ve been reading the advice paragraphs on the woman’s page, all about sharing his interests,” he teased her. And then he added quietly, “You do share mine, old girl. But we didn’t choose each other just to have suitable audience, you know. Later, when we are married and have each other day in, day out, I’ll probably begin to bore you with all my thoughts that are only argued out. Be careful, then, or I’ll start practising my speeches on you too. How would you like that?”
“I’d love it,” Penny said, and she did look as if she meant it. And that pleased him somehow, however much he had protested against it.
As they crossed over Oxford Street to follow the wide curve of Regent Street down towards Piccadilly Circus he said, with unexpected anger, “But damn Marain’s eyes. This was one night I didn’t want to think about politics and problems. I wonder if he sat through that concert only finding social significance, or lack of it, in the music.” He suddenly felt sorry for Marain. It was a new feeling, too. His annoyance left him then.
Penny said, “If it had not been Marain it would have been something else: those two young men who were in such a hurry to leave and then blocked up the entrance; or the street noises; or something.” She looked at the brightly lit red bus as it roared down the sweep of Regent Street. At this hour of night the pavements were less crowded, the shops were shut, the traffic was lighter. But that only reminded you of the busy street in daytime, when it was fully alive. A sleeping street always seemed unnatural. There was no real feeling of peace, even when it rested. It was full of latent energy, ready to burst into noisy demonstration.
“Because a city is a practical place,” Penny went on. “Everything about it pulls us back into a world where practical people live. We should have been on Inchnamurren, and then the music would still have been around us long after it had ended.”
“Only,” he pointed out, “we couldn’t go to a Queen’s Hall and hear that concert on Inchnamurren. Life doesn’t have cut-and-dried classifications like a library: you don’t find perfection all complete under one heading. Not even on your Inchnamurren, Penny.”
She looked at him, thinking now about their love. “Nothing is perfect?” She was half puzzled, half worried.
He didn’t answer. Perfection, that strange experience of unexpected moments: moments which came often unsought, released you as irrationally as they had gripped you and possessed you, leaving you with a sense of wonder over the unexplainable.
“Nothing?” Penny asked again. “At the concert...” she went on, and then she saw his eyes and realised she did not have to explain her idea of perfection. “And before the concert,” she said quietly. “In spite of the Marains, I haven’t forgotten. Even in a city street it is still here, David.” She raised his hand which held hers to touch her heart quickly, lightly.
“Yes,” he said. Each experience we share, even my hand on her breast at that moment, is something which cannot be taken away from us. It is always ours, if we keep it this way.
He looked down at her. “For two pins I’d kiss you right now,” he said. He paused suddenly, and did kiss her. To two passing women, watching with shocked curiosity, he said, “Yes, most enjoyable, thank you.”
To Penny he said, “We’ll keep it this way. Always.”
They exchanged the little smile of knowledge, of experience shared, which needs no explanation. And then, arm in arm, they swung down Regent Street—oblivious to Indian silks in Liberty’s, South African diamonds in the Goldsmiths’ window, French perfumes and laces in the Galeries Lafayette, Harris tweeds and Shetland wool in Jaeger’s, Balkan cigarettes, prints from Brussels and Vienna, glass from Sweden, silver from Denmark, movies from America—towards the Café Royal, as if indeed the world was stretched before them.
35
MRS LORRIMER IS BLOWN OFF COURSE
Mrs. Lorrimer entered her drawing-room, looked around it with pleasure, as she always did, and walked over the thick green carpet to her private writing-table. For a moment she stood looking out of the window, postponing the moment of sitting down.
The heavy shower of rain had ended, and there was enough blue in the sky to patch a Dutchman’s trousers: so it would clear, and with this warm summer breeze the tennis-courts would be dry enough for the last day of the championship. It would be nice if Charles could win this year: it had been five years since he had won the finals. Mary Lorrimer smiled tolerantly as she reflected what children men were, always attempting more than they should try to do.
The sun was shining now: the patch of blue sky was growing. Yes, it would clear up nicely, after all. The trees in the Crescent’s locked garden were fresh and crisply green with the look of June. But soon it would be July. She remembered what she had been trying to forget: the letter to be written to Penelope. “Before July,” her father had warned her. It had been an unpleasant warning, as unpleasant to her as the rest of Dr. MacIntyre’s letter. She had been so shocked, so scandalised by some of his ideas that she had been ashamed to show the letter to Charles. But when she did his reaction had been bewildering.
He was still against this marriage. He must be. (He had not answered that letter which David Bosworth had written to him at Easter, asking if he might visit Charles’s office in June, when his future would be settled.) But Charles had made no comment at all on Father’s letter, not even at the mention of Bosworth’s probably brilliant future. That had been Mr. Chaundler’s phrase, quoted by Father. But, of course, a don would always think that of any favourite pupil. “So, as a prospective son-in-law, if you insist on thinking only of the practical side of this marriage, you could do very much worse than accept David Bosworth.” Her father must have written that with a wry smile. And Charles, always angered by sarcasm used against him, had said nothing at all after he had read the letter. If he had been shocked or horrified by it, as she herself was, then he had not allowed that to be seen. Nor did he allow any more discussion. When she had begun to talk about Penelope he had said suddenly, “No more, Mary. I’m tired of hearing this dramatised.” An odd remark, and an unjust one too.
Suddenly Mary Lorrimer felt uncertain, as if somehow she now stood alone in this matter. It’s unfair, she thought miserably: he won’t discuss anything, and it is important to discuss it. It’s unfair to leave everything to me. He’s evading it now. He can’t possibly start siding with Father. Or is he? And is he only unwilling to admit that he is? Impossible, she told herself. She turned abruptly away from the window and sat down at her writing-table.
Before July her father had said. She glanced unnecessarily at the calendar.
She began the letter. Then she abandoned the half-written sheet of paper. She must deal with this tactfully. She must think clearly.
She opened a small drawer, unlocking it first, where she had placed her father’s letter. She unfolded it again, her eyes following its small, neat writing impatiently. Yes, she knew it all off by heart. First there was the paragraph about Penelope. Well and happy. (How could she be happy in a single room, cooking, cleaning, and at the same time working in a furniture shop?) Then a paragraph about David Bosworth: his work, his family (that rid
iculous sister with her superior airs), and his prospects. Prospects! After that there was a paragraph giving her father’s own impressions of Penelope and David Bosworth, formed not from their answers to his questions—“A crude and cheap way of getting information”—but by just listening to them talk about each other. “Not only what they said, but the way they said it.”
But it was the last pages of the letter which had upset her most of all. Even yet she could scarcely believe her eyes.
All this has been most distasteful for me to write, but I have set down everything clearly as honest evidence for Charles to consider. And now I am going to set down a few thoughts which are directed frankly at you, Mary. I have no control over Charles’s decisions; they depend on his conscience. But I can at least give you, Mary, some advice, for that is a father’s privilege. If you take it I shall be happy: Penelope’s future will then be her own responsibility. If you don’t, then Penelope’s future is your entire responsibility.
I should not need to tell you the facts of life at your age. But there is one real purpose behind falling in love, even if those who never could call a spade by its own name have done their idealistic worst to disguise that fact. A man does not fall in love in order to have a pretty companion to take to a theatre or a football match. He can enjoy that without having to love the girl. But he cannot love a girl without wanting to possess her, and marriage is the solution that civilised society has found for that very natural phenomenon. It is the logical solution because marriage is the simplest and strongest way of living together, and a man and woman in love will live together.
Don’t write back saying that living together is immoral. You and Charles have been doing it for twenty-odd years now. And I am not discussing people who experiment with love as if it were a fashion, a whim, or merely a physical sensation. If that is all they want out of life let them have it. That’s punishment enough. I am talking about men and women who are in love and therefore want to live together for the rest of their lives. Like you and Charles. I put no objections in the way of your marriage (although I could have, for you were young), and so you both got what you wanted. But what about the less fortunate people in love? Those who must face the lack of money, or their families? In their desperation they will find their own solution. It isn’t done with the childish idea of being daring, of wishing to prove they are “modern,” unconventional, contemptuous of accepted behaviour. I am talking about men and women in love who have discovered that the outward symbols of marriage are of less value than the essential love which is the solid core of lasting marriage. And to me that is the most important thing in anyone’s life.
Now, Mary, pick up this letter once more and smooth it out where you crumpled it. It is no good throwing it aside. You would always want to know how I ended my fatherly talk to you.
I can hear your objections, even at the distance of some four hundred miles. “What about control, discipline?” What about it, Mary? Doesn’t it take self-control and discipline, and hard work too, to make love a success?
You say, “But why can’t they wait?” Wait for what? What have you given them to wait for?
You say, “But they are young, impetuous. They have all their lives before them. There is no need to hurry.” How can anyone be so confident of the time left him that he can afford to waste any of it? As for being young and impetuous— the more responsibility given to youth the better for them and their country. There’s a growing weakness in Britain when we call young men “boys” and young women “girls”; when middle age and falling hair is considered the first stage of trustworthiness; when old age and thinning blood is reserved for praise and distinction, as if the number of years which a man endures must raise him automatically to the intelligent, capable class of men. We forget too often that youth is a reservoir of power and energy; that it has a sincerity and a longing to prove itself that should be used. Instead we ignore this potential strength, or we discourage it, so that its vital quality is lost.
If at this moment you think I am being fantastic, I should remind you that our country was not built up, either in its history or its literature, by the “Typical Englishman” we have so popularised. We forget too easily the kind of men who gave us our heritage; their energy, their vitality, their passions, vehemence, wild emotions. Yes, I know these can be vices as well as virtues. But better strength which has its mistakes than no strength at all. And there is a high courage and generosity in youth, which can accept the risk of mistakes and even turn it to success. There is no need to be afraid for the man or woman who keeps that high courage in his heart.
So put your fears aside, Mary. Penny has her job; David will have his; together they will have enough to live on. And later, when Miss Bosworth has finished her education, Penny need not keep her job unless she wants to. They are, as you see, not without plans.
Write to Penny. Better still, go down to London and listen to her. But write her, certainly, before July.
And that is the last piece of fatherly advice which I shall ever give you. It is much too painful a pleasure.
Mary Lorrimer let her father’s letter fall on the desk. She stared at the note she had begun to Penelope. I won’t write, she thought. I won’t. Then she picked up her pen again. She heard Betty’s footsteps running downstairs. Her youngest daughter burst into the room with her usual imitation of a volcano in eruption.
“Betty! Please!”
“Sorry, Mummy. Still writing old letters?”
“I thought you had gone with Moira to see Daddy play. Pull up your stocking, Betty; it looks so slovenly.”
“I’m going out to the courts now,” Betty said, with slight difficulty in breathing as she twisted a leg and looked over her shoulder to see the stocking seam. She had grown taller in this last year, and the shapeless body had begun to assume its proper proportions. Mrs. Lorrimer stared in amazement. It was really so noticeable now.
“Betty,” she said sharply, “why aren’t you wearing your jacket?”
Betty’s cheerful face clouded over. She looked down at the white blouse, the striped tie, the navy skirt, black stockings, and flat-heeled lacing shoes. “But, Mummy, it’s a clean blouse?”
“Do as you are told, Betty, and don’t argue. Why were you so long in dressing, anyway?”
“My watch stopped when I was working. I must have forgotten to wind it again. I’ve finished my novel, Mummy. It’s wizard, it really is. The hero finds a witch-goddess guarding the temple, only this girl isn’t a witch or a goddess really, she’s just a—”
“Yes, darling. You’ll be late for Daddy’s match. Why didn’t Moira take you with her?”
Betty stared incredulously at her mother. “Moira didn’t want me.”
“I am sure your sister wouldn’t dream of leaving you behind,” Mrs. Lorrimer said indignantly. I must speak to Moira, she thought; she must not hurt Betty’s feelings in this way, always running off and avoiding her.
Oh, wouldn’t she? Betty thought, but she did not dare say that. Besides, who wanted to go along with an old sister, and sit in the grown-up part of the veranda? “I’ve promised to meet Barbara and Jean Mair anyway,” she said, in an offhand way. And Bobby Turner and the Lang boys.
“Well, you had better run along then.” Mrs. Lorrimer suddenly stared at her youngest daughter incredulously. “Betty, have you been putting powder on your nose?”
Betty looked startled. “Powder?” she asked carefully. And then, with emphasis, “Oh, no, Mummy.” Golly, she thought, that was a narrow squeak. Did I put on too much oatmeal flour? She waved her hand and ran out of the room, saying, “I must simply dash. The girls will be waiting for me. ’Bye.”
“Goodbye, dear. Come home with Daddy, won’t you? And put on that jacket.”
“Yes, Mummy,” Betty called back from the hall. If it got too warm, as it would, she could always take the jacket off when she reached the tennis grounds. It made her look so fat. Why couldn’t she have a fitted one like Moira’s and silk stockings
too?
Mrs. Lorrimer picked up her pen once more. How easy it was to understand Betty. If only she could stay at this age forever, instead of having to grow up and go out into the world. As Penelope had done. You brought up girls carefully, made them sweet and innocent and trusting. And then they met men, and you did nothing but worry. Why were men like that, anyway? Look at her own father and these shocking ideas he had expressed about men and women in love... Why, if an elderly scholar, a quiet, gentle man, could have thoughts like these, what must younger men think of life? Charles—surely he did not think like that, or rather feel like that? For Father’s letter had emphasised emotion rather than thought. Yes, that was where he was wrong: he had not talked about rational human beings, but only those who were driven on by—she thought of the word “passion,” but slipped it quickly out of her mind into the deep cellar where all disturbing thoughts must be buried, walled up, not discussed, not even imagined in privacy.
At that point the parlourmaid brought in the silver tea-tray, and Mary Lorrimer abandoned her writing-table. The letter could be written after tea. She must rest now, and put her feet up as the doctor said, and try to stop worrying. She picked up the new novel which Boots’s library had recommended to her this morning. It was really so difficult today to find suitable books, what with all the violent thoughts and words and monstrous ideas that so many writers were using. She felt irritation at her father’s possible reply to that: what about Chaucer, or Shakespeare, or Balzac, or Tolstoy? As if one didn’t know that those were classics. Classics were different.
Now she must stop thinking about such things, or she never would forget her worries. She had to get her mind calm and clear before she wrote to Penelope. She opened the book on her lap, looking at the first page then at the last page and then at a page near the middle. Yes, it did seem a pleasant story; about a pleasant house and pleasant people. Now nice...
Friends and Lovers Page 36
